Darcourt, the eager amateur, wished heartily for a public success, and fretted that it appeared unlikely. He was sitting in the balcony of the theatre, during one of the mysterious marking rehearsals, when he became aware of a presence behind him, and of a smell that he thought he recognized. It was not really a bad smell, but it was a heavy, furry smell, rather like the bears’ cage in a zoo. A soft, velvety bass voice rumbled in his ear.

“Priest Simon—a word, if you please.”

Turning, he found Yerko leaning forward over his shoulder.

“Priest Simon, I have been taking note. Watching with great care. Everything seems to be going well, but a vital element of opera success is still missing. You know what I mean?”

Darcourt had no idea what this large, overwhelming Gypsy could possibly mean.

“The Claque, Priest Simon. Where is your Claque? Nobody says a word about it. I have inquired. The P.Or. people do not seem to know when I speak of a Claque. But you do, surely?”

Darcourt had heard of a claque, but knew nothing about it.

“Without the Claque—nothing. How can you expect anything else? Nobody knows this opera. An opera audience must contain people who know the work intimately. Nobody will dare to applaud if they don’t know where, and when, and why. They might make an embarrassing mistake—look foolish. Now listen very carefully. I know the whole business of the Claque from top to bottom. Did I not work for years at the Vienna Opera under the great Bonci—related, but not so you could talk about it, to the noble tenor of that name? I was Bond’s right-hand man.”

“You mean hired applause? Oh Yerko, I don’t think that would do at all.”

“Certainly it would not do if you talk of hired applause. That is not a Claque; that is a noisy, untrained rabble. No, look: a Claque is a small body of experts; applause, certainly, but not unorganized row; you must have your bisseurs who call out loud for encores; your rieurs who laugh at the right places—but just appreciative chuckles to encourage the others, not from the belly; your pleureurs who sob when sobs are needed; and, of course, the kind of clapping that encourages the uninformed to join, which is not vulgar hand-smacking that makes the clapper look like a drunk. Good clapping must sound intelligent, and that calls for skill; you must know what part of the palm to smack. And all of this must be carefully organized—yes, orchestrated—by the capo di claque. That’s me. We won’t talk money; this is a gift from my sister and me to our dear Arthur. We give him a success! But get me twelve seats—four balcony, two on each side of the ground floor well toward the front, and four in the last two rows, centre—and we can’t fail. Of course two seats for me and my sister—because we shall appear in evening dress and sit in the middle of the house—and the thing’s done.”

“But Yerko—it’s very kind, but isn’t it a sort of lie?”

“Is P.Or. a lie? Would I lie to you, my friend?”

“No, no, certainly not; but it’s lying to somebody, I feel sure.”

“Priest Simon, listen; remember the old Gypsy saying—Lies keep the teeth white.”

“I must say it’s very tempting.”

“You fix it up.”

“I’ll talk to Powell.”

“But not a word to Arthur. This is a present. A surprise.”

Darcourt did talk to Powell, and Powell was delighted.

“Just in the real early-nineteenth-century style!” he said. “He’s right, you know. Unless the audience is led, most of it won’t know when to clap or what to like. A claque is just what we need.”

So Darcourt gave Yerko the approving word. This is following the path of the Fool, he thought, and, all things considered, it’s good sport.

What nobody could possibly have considered good Sport was Schnak’s examination. It affected everybody in the company, from the stage crew, who thought it a pompous nuisance, to Albert Greenlaw, who said it gave him the heebie-jeebies, and to Hans Hoizknecht and Clara Intrepidi, who were told by Dr. Gunilla that they must give their best in the performance involved, and that no “marking” or saving the voice was permitted.

The form of the examination was unusual. After some haggling it was agreed that it could not take place in the School of Music, and that the examiners must journey to Stratford to do their work. They were to examine the candidate orally in the morning, in the upstairs crush-bar of the theatre, and after luncheon they were to see a performance of the opera. It made a long day for them, said Dean Wintersen. He said nothing about what sort of day it made for Schnak.

There were to be three dress rehearsals before the first night of the production, which was scheduled for a Saturday. It was on the Wednesday, therefore, that a special small bus left the Music School in Toronto at a quarter to eight in the morning, with seven academics aboard.

“I must say I find this exceedingly irregular,” said Professor Andreas Pfeiffer, who was the External Examiner, a great panjandrum of musicology imported for the occasion from an important school of music in Pennsylvania.

“You mean seeing a performance of the opera?” said Dean Wintersen, who had entertained Pfeiffer at dinner the night before and had already had enough of him.

“Of that I say nothing,” said Professor Pfeiffer. “I mean this business of being haled across the countryside at an early hour. Last night I slept very poorly, thinking about what lay ahead. It is difficult to compose oneself under such circumstances.”

“You must admit the circumstances are unusual,” said the Dean, lighting his first cigarette of the day.

“Perhaps too unusual,” said Pfeiffer. “May I politely request you not to smoke? Very disagreeable in an enclosed vehicle.”

The Dean threw his cigarette out of the window.

“Ah, ah! You didn’t douse it!” said Professor Adelaide O’Sullivan. “That is how forest fires are started. Can we stop? I’ll get out and stamp on it.”

This was done, and Professor O’Sullivan, having dodged and darted a hundred yards to the rear, amid heavy traffic, found the cigarette, which had gone out of itself on the city street, and which she trampled to bits, as a matter of principle. This put the journey off to a start marked by underground feeling. Professor George Cooper, a stout Englishman, had already gone to sleep, but Professor John Diddear was covertly pro-Dean, as he himself liked to smoke during examinations, as a way of passing the time, and he knew that it would be impossible with Pfeiffer and O’Sullivan so strongly against it. Professor Francesco Berger, who was the examiner from the university’s own department of music, and a man of peace, tried to improve the atmosphere by telling a joke, but as he was not a man with much narrative sense, he spoiled it, and made matters worse. Professor Penelope Raven, who was the seventh of the group, laughed too loudly, all alone, at the non-climax, and was stared into silence by Pfeiffer.

It took the bus a little under two hours to reach Stratford, and the driver had to put up with a good deal of cautionary exclamation from Professor Pfeiffer, who was a nervous passenger.

But at last the examiners found themselves in the crush-bar of the theatre, accommodated with a large table, and lots of pencils and pads, and several jugs of coffee. Professor Pfeiffer, who never drank coffee, was given a bottle of Perrier by Gwen Larking, the Stage Manager, who had appointed herself beadle of the occasion; she left an awed gofer on the spot, to fetch, carry, and do the bidding of the academics.

The protocol of an oral examination for a doctorate in music is not extreme, but it can be severe. Schnak, who was hanging about, dressed in a skirt at Gunillas bidding, shook hands with all of the examiners, and shaking hands was not a courtesy that came easily to her. Gunilla introduced her to Professor Pfeiffer, who made it clear that this was an honour for Schnak; he put out his hand, which she barely touched. It was like ceremonially forgiving the headsman, before he does his work.